


not a case of trying too hard

by youcouldmakealife



Series: if all is enough [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4179093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m sorry,” Rousseau says stiffly.</p>
<p>Ulf is tempted to ask him what he’s apologizing for, exactly, but perhaps that’s a goad. “No worries,” he says.</p>
<p>Rousseau shoots him a look. Ulf doesn’t know if it’s at the ease of the response or the wording of it. Ulf punctuates both with a lazy shrug of his shoulder. “You want another beer?” Ulf asks.</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t,” Rousseau says, and when Ulf raises an eyebrow, “okay.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	not a case of trying too hard

Rousseau avoids him for the next week. Avoidance doesn’t look that different from the way Rousseau typically acts around him. Rousseau cuts his eyes away when their eyes meet, but he did that before. Rousseau keeps his distance, but he does that with everyone, really, save for the coaching staff, and even then sometimes it seems like there’s a gulf that only Travis can traverse. You wouldn’t notice that Rousseau was avoiding Ulf unless you were paying close attention, and even then it might be missed.

Ulf leaves him to it. Rousseau’s still doing his job, and Ulf’s doing his, so there isn’t a problem, really, any more so than when Rousseau was ducking his eye out of shyness rather than perceived insult. Ulf isn’t going to apologize to him; the apology he levelled before was for touching him without establishing that he would welcome the touch in the first place, instinctive response or not, but otherwise, Ulf didn’t do anything he needs to apologize for. He’d been warned of fragility, and maybe that warning was warranted, but it isn’t his job to make sure no one’s feelings get bruised.

Unsurprisingly, it’s at an impromptu Travis drop-in that Rousseau talks to him. Ulf doesn’t know if this is a Rangers thing or just a Garza thing, but there’s an insistence on full roster outings in a way Ulf’s never experienced on any other team, and his last captain was Jake ‘Teamwork! Bonding!’ Lourdes. It’s a pretty young roster, and they seem to like it, some heading out for more lively entertainment when the older guys wrap it up.

Travis isn’t much older than Ulf, started insanely young by coaching standards, a career coach, leading a team to a Calder when he was 27, and taking it from there, and by this point in the season the guys are used to a quick check in from him, no longer than the length of a beer, not approaching any of them, but making it clear they’re welcome to approach him.

Ulf’s finishing up his second pint, content to watch some of the antics from afar rather than wade into that mess. It was an afternoon game, and some of the younger guys have an excess of energy, adopting a swaggering stance that is moderately less inappropriate at midnight. Ulf amuses himself texting lazy chirps at Dan about the Senators, who are getting shelled out in Montreal, Marc leading the charge. It’s enough to make a man wince in sympathy, but Ulf prefers teasing.

Rousseau comes over, stands at the edge of the table until Ulf glances away from the carnage. “What’s up?” Ulf asks.

“Can I sit?” Rousseau asks.

“Sure,” Ulf says, scoots into the booth to free space up, though Rousseau ends up taking the seat across him.

“I’m sorry,” Rousseau says stiffly.

Ulf is tempted to ask him what he’s apologizing for, exactly, but perhaps that’s a goad. “No worries,” he says.

Rousseau shoots him a look. Ulf doesn’t know if it’s at the ease of the response or the wording of it. Ulf punctuates both with a lazy shrug of his shoulder. “You want another beer?” Ulf asks. Rousseau’s pint is down to dregs.

“I shouldn’t,” Rousseau says, and when Ulf raises an eyebrow, “okay.”

Ulf gets them both a pint. “Who’s the suck up now?” Garza says, when Ulf’s returning to the table, and Ulf hipchecks him gently enough to avoid spilling the beer. Garza was huddled in a corner with Travis for at least ten minutes earlier. He will permanently be the suck up. Ulf bets that if bringing teachers apples was something that actually happened in America, outside of the media or the distant past, Garza conscientiously chose the very best apples to bring and tied a bow around the stems. That’s just the sort of guy Garza is.

Ulf sits back down. “Pretty sad,” he notes, as Rousseau’s eyes have drifted to the closest television.

“Lapointe scored,” Rousseau says.

“I know,” Ulf says, “I’m harassing his husband about it.”

“It’s his second goal,” Rousseau says, and Ulf looks up at the screen, sees it’s gone from bad to worse.

“Quiet a second, I need to rub it in,” Ulf says, and Rousseau obliges, not that he’d be likely to say much otherwise, judging from experience. Ulf sends a suitably mocking text to Dan, who has only responded to his previous texts with _i hate u both_ , permanently in the text speak stage of his development, puts his phone away.

“Riley?” Rousseau asks.

“Gets to deal with baby duty and his husband embarrassing his team,” Ulf confirms. He probably shouldn’t smirk as he says it, but he does. Retirement’s tough.

“Not just Lapointe,” Rousseau murmurs, and Ulf checks the score again. Still the same, though that really says enough. It’s not often you reach double digits in a hockey game, a truly rare occasion, but the Habs are clearly working to achieve that goal. Remarque is holding onto a shutout as well, which must only add insult to injury.

“So, coach,” Ulf says, wishes Rousseau hadn’t winced as he said it. “How’s the beer?” he asks, to distract from it. He has no idea what Rousseau ordered before, but figured a lager would be inoffensive.

“Good,” Rousseau says, and honestly, picking an inoffensive beer shouldn’t make Ulf feel triumphant.

They watch the rest of the bloodbath in silence, a waitress coming and going, bringing pints with her, pointing at Garza when Ulf questions it. Garza grins at him when Ulf meets his eye. Teachers’ pet. Definitely the bigger suck up. Ulf’s just blowing one member of the coaching staff, Garza tries to charm all of them.

Ulf looks over at Rousseau, wonders if that’s the plan for tonight, or whether Rousseau’s just sitting with him as an extension of the apology, proving he’s able. Rousseau had followed the waitress’ pointing finger, nodded at Garza in thanks, but now he’s watching the game again. Remarque’s given up his shutout, which must be cold comfort. His jaw is a clean-shaven line even now, shadowed, looks like it’d be sharp enough to cut Ulf’s fingers if he had the temerity to touch.

Rousseau cuts his eyes away from the screen as if he feels the weight of Ulf’s gaze, meets his eye for a long moment.

That’s the plan, then.

The game ends, a brutal 10-1, the kind of score you typically only see when one of the big four nations run over some poor, tiny European country in international contests. Rousseau seems to realize, then, that he’s the last remnant of management standing, Travis and company bowing out at least a drink ago. “I need to go,” he says.

“Have another,” Ulf says, signals the waitress, who raises a well-plucked brow at him, nods at the two fingers he holds up. If Rousseau doesn’t want it, there’s no shortage of guys who do, and Ulf’s got at least a few more in him.

“We have practice tomorrow,” Rousseau says.

“At noon,” Ulf says. The night’s still young. Wilson’s weaving, but most of the guys are either intact or have gone home. It’s rare to get a stretch of time like this before last call, and Ulf suspects practice tomorrow will involve a lot of nauseated faces.

Rousseau drinks the beer she brings, watches the Kings host the Penguins. Ulf wonders if it hurts to watch them. Knows from experience that when you win a Cup with a group it’s harder to let them go, and Ulf’s parting was just business, an offseason trade. Rousseau’s parting from the Penguins was more of a rending.

“They say Consol’s cursed,” Ulf says, and Rousseau cuts his eyes over to him, startled. “The Pens are the only team to have a consistently better record on the road,” he adds.

“I know,” Rousseau says.

“Is it?” Ulf asks.

“I don’t believe in curses,” Rousseau says.

“So what is it?” Ulf asks. “It’s a statistically significant trend.”

Rousseau takes a sip of beer. “We wanted it too much,” he says, finally.

Ulf laughs. “You tried too hard?” he asks. “That’s your answer?”

“I didn’t say that,” Rousseau says. “We wanted it too much. That’s what I said.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Ulf asks.

“Yeah,” Rousseau says. “If you let it be.”

“You want to go first, or should I?” Ulf asks, matter-of-fact.

“I’ll go,” Rousseau says, doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know what Ulf’s implying, and Ulf watches a few more minutes of the game, says his goodbyes to the remaining guys, tells Anderson to get Wilson home before he tips right off the stool he’s precariously perched on, since Garza left and someone needs to keep the kids from alcohol poisoning.

They go to Ulf’s again. Rousseau lives out near the practice facility, frugality or practicality, Ulf doesn’t know. After Sunrise, the only place Ulf was willing to live was in the centre of everything, and it costs a fortune, but he’d spend twice that to avoid living somewhere like Scarsdale. He’s not sure where he’ll go after retirement, but he has the uncomfortable feeling that Stockholm won’t be enough for him, that he needs the Toronto, New York, Chicago, that after almost twenty years away, Sweden isn’t where he needs to be. You can never go home again. It’s been said so much the words feel worn out, but truisms earn their name honestly.

“Drink?” Ulf asks, when they get back. “I’ve got pretty much everything.”

“I wanna fuck you,” Rousseau blurts out, then looks surprised that he even said it.

Ulf blinks, says, “Sure,” easy, and Rousseau looks so surprised to hear it Ulf thinks he should probably follow up with, ‘You do know what you’re doing, right?’, but he doesn’t. Partly because it would make Rousseau flush, and not the way Ulf likes, but more likely simple humiliation, regardless of what the answer was, simply because it occurred to Ulf to ask. Partly, selfishly, because if Rousseau did react that way, it’d put a halt on things, in the short term at the very least, but perhaps for good. Rousseau clearly does not like feeling humiliated. Ulf doesn’t know who does, but Rousseau seems unable to shrug it off.

Rousseau preps him slow, thorough, and Ulf doesn’t know if that’s inexperience or just an extension of his generally methodical nature. He does everything that way, or near enough, drinks, talks, even moves, like he thinks through every action before following through on it. Ulf can hardly believe he’s the same person as he was on the ice, so fast it looked like everyone else was standing still. But maybe that’s it, that the ice was instinct, and it’s everything else that’s hard.

Ulf could take over, and it’d be just as effective in half the time. He would, usually, has nothing against foreplay, frequently finds it as satisfying as the act itself, but that’s never really extended to getting fingered, for him, which he generally views as the means to an end.

“I’m ready,” Ulf says, when he’s beyond that, and when Rousseau totally ignores his helpful hint, teases, “I think this might be another case of sabotaging yourself by trying too hard.”

Rousseau meets his eye, almost solemn, and Ulf remembers Rousseau correcting him. It’s not trying too hard, it’s wanting it too much. He feels embarrassed, suddenly, exposed.

“Can you just -- ” Ulf says, looking away.

“Yeah,” Rousseau says. “Okay.”

The pace Rousseau sets from the start is almost punishing, too much too fast, and Ulf wonders whether Rousseau’s trying to punish Ulf or himself. Maybe the both of them, for the foolishness of it, the repeated thread of impropriety, professional misconduct.

For wanting it too much. That’s a thought Ulf bites down the second it appears. Ulf might tell him to slow down, but it’s punishing because it’s _good_ , on the cusp of too much and then over it, and Ulf doesn’t care if it is, if he’s going to be sore tomorrow, ‘sorry Coach, your assistant fucked me so hard my balance is fucked up today’, accompanied with a lazy grin. Might have bruises; he doesn’t bruise all that easy, but the tight grip Rousseau has on him, steadying himself, feels like it might leave itself burned into his flesh. Bruises would be nothing.

When Ulf comes it’s almost painful, Rousseau’s hand stripping his cock, the skin of Ulf’s hip still echoing with the grip of his fingers, the absence. Rousseau follows him soon enough, forehead resting between Ulf’s shoulder blades. He doesn’t linger, pulls out, ties the condom off, puts it in the garbage adjacent to the bed.

“Water?” Ulf asks, after a minute.

“Yeah,” Rousseau says.

He doesn’t end up drinking it, in the end, on his belly on the bed when Ulf returns with two glasses, still catching his breath. Ulf sips his water, traces his fingers down the curve of Rousseau’s spine, thumb brushing over a scar that breaks the line of his back. Rousseau lets him, muscles tight under the drag of Ulf’s fingers at first, and then going lax, likely more with oncoming sleep than relaxation. Ulf’s never seen him relaxed, really, but the man must sleep.

Ulf should rouse him before he falls asleep entirely. He doesn’t mind Rousseau staying the night, has never minded sleeping beside someone, rare enough to be a novelty, but he suspects that Rousseau would absolutely mind. He tells himself he’ll give him another minute, fingers trailing down the notches of Rousseau’s spine, skin tacky with drying sweat.

“Adam,” he murmurs, pressing his mouth against Rousseau’s shoulder, and Rousseau doesn’t stir, breath slow, even. Ulf doesn’t wake him. Tells himself he doesn’t have the heart to. It’s even true, more or less.

In the morning Rousseau’s predictably embarrassed at having fallen asleep, has collected most of his clothing and clad himself in briefs and an undershirt before Ulf’s finished blinking his eyes open, checking the clock.

“What’s the rush?” he says through a yawn.

“I gotta go,” Rousseau says.

“Have some breakfast, first,” Ulf says. “Practice isn’t for three more hours.”

“I gotta be there early,” Rousseau counters.

“I make really good French toast,” Ulf says.

Rousseau shrugs his dress shirt on, starts buttoning from the top.

“I have maple syrup from Quebec,” Ulf says.

Rousseau gives him a look of disbelief, like Ulf is ridiculous for trying to bribe him with maple syrup, but hey, it’s worked before. Real maple syrup is convincing. He made friends and influenced people with maple bars.

“Coffee, then?” Ulf says, and that makes Rousseau hesitate.

“Coffee,” Ulf confirms, and wanders out of bed to turn the coffee maker on.

Rousseau stays for coffee, and also for breakfast. He doesn’t say much, other than, “put some clothes on, you’re gonna burn your dick off,” sounding utterly aghast when Ulf pulled out a pan, both one of the longest sentences Ulf’s heard come out of his mouth in a non-work context and probably the most adorable. Ulf humors him, in the end, mostly because he’s craving bacon, and if that’s going to happen, he probably should follow that advice.

Rousseau eats the French toast, the bacon, ignores the maple syrup, which Ulf thinks means his citizenship should technically be revoked. Takes a travel mug with him, in the end, saying, “I’ll give it back at practice.”

“No hurry,” Ulf says. “It’s not like I don’t know where you work.”

Rousseau’s mouth tips up slightly, and he tilts the mug in Ulf’s direction, a silent thanks, or cheers. A gesture, in more than one definition of the word. His shirt’s mostly buttoned, but you can see the red rash crawling up the side of his neck, abraded from Ulf’s five-o-clock shadow, a parody of the flush Ulf goads out of him. It’s likely hot to the touch, but they haven’t touched this morning other than a brush of fingers when Ulf handed him his coffee.

“Sure you don’t want a ride to practice?” Ulf asks. “Cab fare out will be crazy.”

Rousseau gives him a look that speaks more than a paragraph would. When Rousseau was at the height of his career, he was probably making as much a year as Ulf has in the last decade, and Ulf is by no means hurting. “I’ll give this back at practice,” he repeats.

“Hell, keep it,” Ulf says, and weirdly, that’s the thing that makes Rousseau smile.

**Author's Note:**

> [Things are happening on tumblr.](http://youcouldmakealife.tumblr.com/)


End file.
